


A Twisted, Metal Coffin

by BrokenHazelEyes



Series: OT4- Greg/Ed/Sam/Spike [6]
Category: Flashpoint
Genre: Blood and Injury, Car Accidents, Hurt Spike, I Tried, Injury, Kidnapping, Major Character Injury, OOC, Original Character Death(s), Other, Spike Whump, car crash, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-04
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 13:54:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4265691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenHazelEyes/pseuds/BrokenHazelEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dust clouded the scene, and the bomb tech struggled to see outside the shattered windows and past the dead man as the smell of gasoline, rubber and copper made him gag. There were sirens, and his name was being shouted but everything was dulled.<br/>Shock, he guessed quietly to himself.<br/>When the calls of his name came closer, Spike went to speak back but he balked when his voice came out shredded and scratchy. He could feel the bits of glass embedded in his skin, and he knew his arm was either broken or dislocated and there was blood dripping from his leg—but he didn’t look, didn’t want to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Twisted, Metal Coffin

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, again! Have you figured out I like hurt!Spike yet? Anyway, I apologize for this story; I was wincing as I was writing. I'm still trying to get over this writers block, and my brain is refusing to make complete sentences or, you know, a plot line. I've got so many ideas over here, and I'm just blankly looking at my keyboard and trying to figure out where my English went--my first language is vague arm movements and grunts.  
> Anyway, I really hope you are enjoying my stories. I would love (like, you don't understand, I literally live off of comments--even if it's only two words I'm dancing around) feedback, and thank you to everyone who has given kudos and comments.  
> Still kinda feeling lonely on this ship (and fandom, to be honest); so don't be afraid to say hi, I don't bite! (I just glare at my computer--and I've been told I'm not exactly scary). 
> 
> A/N: I do not own Flashpoint or the characters used in this piece of fan-fiction. I do not make a profit from my writing. However, this is still my writing so please do not repost anywhere. Thank you.

Hot, Canadian summer air flooded the mobile command truck as the door snapped open but Spike didn’t look up from the monitors. He typed away, trained eyes scanning miles of code looking for a weak spot, even though his hands and wrists were aching and he was sure his back wasn’t going to ever be correct again.

“Can I, uh, help you?” Spike asked, words strung out and distracted, in an attempt at politeness but he continued to type and smiled when he found what was looking for. He scanned down the page, opening his mouth to speak into the headset, but the click of a gun’s safety switching positions left him numb, cold, and unable to move.

“Stand up slowly and back up with your arms in the air.” The cold voice said, obviously a man’s, but there was the light—but sharp—sound of heels on the metal floor of the truck, not just the heavy footed steps that had come up behind him, and Spike swallowed dryly as he realized that there were at least two subjects in the mobile command station with him.

“Alright,” Spike said—keeping his voice firm but non-threatening. “I’m standing up now, okay?”

Slowly, Spike rose from the chair and raised his arms above his head while taking measured steps backward. Greg, voice strained and raspy over the channel, asked what was going on but Spike didn’t say anything back—he didn’t want to give these people any reason to spook.

“Is there something I can help you with?” Spike asked, but a leg swept his own out from under him and he toppled to the ground with a grunt.

“Stay still,” A woman’s voice hissed, and the clicking heels came closer.

“I won’t move,” Spike assured them, and now Ed was trying to come up with tactical options over the comms while Greg and Jules were fishing for choices. “Can I help you with something?” He repeated, the words sour in his mouth.

“Yeah,” The woman answered, and he felt his gun leave his holster and rough hands frisk his gear, “keep your mouth shut.”

His headset was ripped off—pulling painfully at his ear—, the comforting voices of his frantic team taken away, and it was crushed under the boot of the male captor. Then heard the straps of his bulletproof vest creak, and it became much looser on his frame until it was limp enough for the man to pull off his body.

“You get everything off of him?” the woman asked, and she must have seen her male accomplice nod or something because there was no verbal response from him.

“Now listen,” The lady said as sharply as the sound of her heels on the metal, “You are going to walk to the grey car parked outside, with your hands in the air, and we will be behind you. You will get into the backseat, and if you follow our commands you will stay alive. If you disobey, or try to escape, you will be killed. Do you understand?”

“Yeah,” Spike said cautiously, “I understand.”

“Good,” She spoke harshly, and the man pulled the bomb tech to his feet and shoved him towards the door. As he took a step forward, the cold barrel of the gun was pressed to the back of his head. He wasn’t confused, but the woman explained in a smooth voice, “to keep your friends from getting trigger happy.”

With firm hands—he couldn’t show fear, couldn’t show anything—Spike opened the door to the tactical response vehicle and stepped onto the paved ground as the man followed him with the pistol. The lady was by his side; hand firmly wrapped around his arm, and had a handgun down by her thigh.

His team, his family, was gathered behind the SUVs with weapons drawn and Greg was holding his binoculars with shaky hands. They were all tensed, and Spike tried to smile reassuringly at them even though it didn’t reach his eyes. For a second, his feet faltered as he saw Ed grab Sam by his pant loops, pulling the younger sniper to his side—the blonde’s fists were clenching, teeth grating, and the training scarred across his body was slipping off like broken Kevlar. A firm shove against his back and a harder press of the pistol against his skull made his legs reaffirm his desired action, and he saw the team jolt.

“Any one tries to interfere, or follow us, and this man gets a bullet in his brain,” The man called out, and Spike continued to walk towards the described car with his shoulders squared and hands raised high above his head. The lady peered at his team, calculating, and turned her back to swing open the car door and the man pushed Spike in. The lady, balancing perfectly in her heels and her knee-length red dress curled in the breeze, lifted the gun from her hip and pointed it, center mass, at the bomb tech as she climbed in after him. The man, who had been guarding his accomplice, walked around the car until he could duck into the driver’s seat and shoved the gas pedal down as soon as the door was closed. With a shriek, the vehicle burned rubber for a second before gaining traction and bolting onto the empty street; Spike felt his back slam against the seat, the seatbelt—the lady had placed it on him, thought he bomb tech had to bet that it wasn’t for his safety but simply another means of control—rubbing painfully against his throat.

Spike watched as the red lights blurred, the asphalt turning into a river of tar as the wheels heated up and spurred the car on faster; the tiny details smoothing as the bomb tech kept facing forward. He didn’t dare turn around to see his team disappear out of sight, see his family disintegrate into fuzzy pixels. The gun was still pressed against his ribs, but he’d heard her, just as she’d climbed in after him, switch on the safety and hid his reaction; his joy, his relief.

The driver, who was looking in his mirror with agitation racking his frame, swore as a black van appeared behind them on the road—far away, but still following like a well-made arrow in their direction.

“Faster,” The lady snapped, and the car edged up towards one-hundred, the speedometer quaking and Spike squeezed his eyes shut before slowly opening them. The city was slowly coming alive as they got further from the crime scene, and cars slammed on their brakes as the grey car screamed down the roads.

“Why are they following us?” The man growled under his breath, and the gun pressed further into his soft skin, “Apparently they don’t care if this guy gets shot.”

“Well, what are we going to do?” The woman shouted, and the man whipped around ready to shout but Spike didn’t hear anything even though he knew there was deafening noise surrounding him; his body felt the rumbling, felt the air shudder in anticipation. Instead, the world was eclipsed into total darkness from unembellished daylight. There was a howl of static with the sound of shattering class chasing its coattails, and the screech of metal sliding against metal blocked out every noise. Then, it was silent and still.

In reality, there was a desperate cry of a truck’s brakes, and the smash of a car horn as the small grey car rippled under the impact of the truck’s front bumper. The front of the car crumpled inward, and Spike felt blood on his face and agony grab onto his arm like a vice. The motion didn’t stop, however, and the car flipped onto its back and slid—sparking—across the intersection. The lady, in the tumble, had been thrown into the front of the car and was lying below the passenger seat with blood dripping from her already-stark lips.

The car slid to a halt, rocking gently on its crushed roof as the tires slowed to a stop.

Spike slowly came back to awareness, dangling from the constricting seat belt, and from where he was he could see his male captor lying, broken, just a few feet from the shattered windshield. His head was surrounded by blood the same shade as his associate’s dress, and his legs were bent at odd angles. The skin of his arms was ravaged by the pavement; rubbed raw and molted with stray asphalt like lost freckles.

Dust clouded the scene, and the bomb tech struggled to see outside the shattered windows and past the dead man as the smell of gasoline, rubber and copper made him gag. There were sirens, and his name was being shouted but everything was dulled.

Shock, he guessed quietly to himself.

When the calls of his name came closer, Spike went to speak back but he balked when his voice came out shredded and scratchy. He could feel the bits of glass embedded in his skin, and he knew his arm was either broken or dislocated and there was blood dripping from his leg—but he didn’t look, didn’t want to see.

There was the sound of broken glass breaking even further under heavy boots, and Spike grinned groggily at Ed’s petrified face. The team leader didn’t turn away from the bomb tech, but yelled behind him.

“I need a medic!”

“I’m okay, Ed,” Spike told him, “Can you get me down?”

Ed looked at the huge tear in Spike’s lower pant leg, the blood making the material stick and there was a piece of metal just visible jutting from the skin. The color drained from Ed’s face, and Spike startled at the look and tried to see what Ed was looking at. The sniper didn’t let him, grabbing him by the chin and forcing their eyes together.

“Look at me, okay? Keep your eyes on me, Spike.” His voice didn’t shake, didn’t falter, but Ed wasn’t doing a good job hiding the panic in his eyes—in the way he held himself.

“Is the other driver okay?” Spike asked, taking a deep breath and trying to not think about what was setting Ed off, eyeing the truck that was scratched with grey paint, and Ed let his head drop a little and shook it with disbelief.

“You’re bleeding all over and…” Ed sighed, “Yeah, the other driver’s fine. Just some bruises.”

Spike nodded happily, but choked on a gasp when the glass stuck in his neck sliced further. Distress was finally starting to restart his nerves, jumpstarting his frantic airways. Ed jumped forward, resting his hand on Spike’s stomach—the only area he didn’t see blood—and told him shakily, “stay still.”

“The medics are here,” Spike heard Greg say, close but not visible, and Ed nodded to himself before slowly crawling out of the car and giving Spike’s stomach one last pat.

When the sniper wasn’t blocking his sight, wasn’t holding his chin and hypnotizing him with icy blue eyes, Spike slowly took stock of his injuries and blinked slowly when he was the piece of metal that was currently slicing open his leg.

Oh, he thought with a rickety breath.

Crouching down to see him, the paramedic, a middle aged woman with computing eyes, yelled for a stretcher before turning back to him.

“How does your back feel?” She asked, looking in through the shattered window, and Spike wiggled his finger and toes before answering.

“Fine, I can move my arms and legs…well, I can feel my right arm, but I think it’s broken so I don’t exactly want to move it.”

“Okay, that’s good,” She smiled encouragingly, and the wheels of the stretcher were just visible behind the lines of her body.

“We need to get this door off, so we can get him out. Gerald! Go get the firefighters and tell them to bring the equipment with them.” The woman yelled, and Spike let his head rest against the seat as Sam squatted down and peered into the bloody car, relaxing at the sight of his lover and teammate.

“Hey, Spike,” Sam said with affection not hidden in his tone, “We’ll get you out in a minute, just need to get this door off.”

“I heard,” Spike rolled his eyes, “I’m not deaf, Samtastic.”

“I need all of you to move back while we remove the door.” Someone—a firefighter, Spike assumed—said as he walked closer. Sam looked behind him, but all Spike could see was an army of boots.

“Go,” Spike urged him, “It’ll only be a minute. I’ll be fine.”

Sam didn’t look assured, eyeing the blood coating the bomb tech’s pants and shirt and the slowly growing pool below him.

“Sir!” The firefighter barked, growing annoyed, and Sam rose on unsteady knees and was pulled back as the men converged on the battered car door.

“He’ll be fine,” Greg assured the young sniper, and shared a look with Ed before rubbing a hand over his forehead.

“He’s got a chunk of metal sticking out of him,” Sam hissed, frantic, “Did you see how much blood he’s lost? He shouldn’t even be awake, let alone talking and joking!”

“He’ll be fine,” Ed snarled, grabbing Sam by the handle on the back of his vest—but both of them had seen the misty look in Spike’s eyes, seen the river of blood on top of the grotesque scene of Spike limply hanging suspended from the twisted metal.

They watched as the door was ripped from the car by the heavy machinery, and—after a few minutes—Spike’s body came into view—along with the bloody seats, ceiling and the shattered glass that littered the car like flowers at a wedding. But Spike wasn’t moving, and his eyes were closed.

“Shit!” The paramedic sprung forth, checking vital signs and a few seconds later determination and fear bled together into a deadly cocktail. She unbuckled him, lowering the bomb tech slowly, and the firefighters helped her lay him on the stretcher as she and the other paramedic took off running towards the ambulance. The doors slammed shut as soon as the stretcher was secured, and the lights lit the destruction as the siren bounced off the perverse metal.

Ed pushed Greg and Sam into a SUV and climbed into the driver’s seat, pulling out after ambulance as the rest of team one piled into cars and followed the man’s lead.

Sam looked at Greg with confusion all over his face; like his brain was shutting down and was refusing to work, catching like an engine refusing to start.

“He said he would be okay.” The young sniper told Greg with furrowed eyebrows, the words tumbling from his lips numbly, “He said he’d be okay,” Sam repeated with more fire, and Greg grabbed him around the shoulders and pulled him closer, hushing the blonde and catching Ed’s gaze in the rearview mirror.

“He will be, Sam, he will be…”

 

* * *

 

 

The waiting room was silent, oddly empty, and team one sat—shocked, confused and horrified—in the uncomfortable seats not truly aware of the world. They didn’t speak, and didn’t complain when Greg stepped forward to meet the haggard doctor.

“Family of Spike Scarlatti?”

“Yes.” Greg responded, eyes searching for answers like this was another subject he could unfold and unfurl into what he needed.

“We did everything we could—”

Sam, who had been standing up and about to walk over, crashed to the floor in a tangle of limbs and terrified eyes. His knees slammed against the floor, the sound deafening in the silent room, and fell forward onto his trembling hands with a broken, animalistic noise.

The doctor spooked, but quickly continued, “The next 24 hours will be critical; Mr. Scarlatti had a deflated lung, several serious lacerations, and a minor head injury. He was very lucky. Right now we are just worried about the lung and blood loss.”

“But he’ll be okay?” Sam asked from where he was still on the floor, and Jules had rushed to his side as Ed kneeled beside him.

“We are confident he will survive, yes.”

“Can.. can we see him?” Wordy asked hesitantly, stepping forward, and the doctor nodded and led them through the hallways to a dim hospital room.

“Visiting hours are over at 8, and don’t be worried if he doesn’t wake up or respond—it’s very important he rests right now.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Jules smiled, Wordy and Lou—who was still dull eyed and twitchy from the horror—at her side. The rest of the team had already rushed in, circling the bed in a manner akin to when dolphins protect swimmers from sharks. Lou and Wordy tumbled through the doorway, but Jules stayed leaning against the doorway.

The woman watched the delicate and reverent touches that the three men gave Spike, their gaze full of wonder and liberation, and she slipped around the corner to go find some coffee.

She’d never seen love that pure before; not when it was soaked in blood and threatened to be ripped apart like a fracturing bone.

She’d never seen lovers that pure; ready to charge into death and bring forth and die in the ashes of Ragnarok to save a single soul.

Their love was too complicated to understand, a spider web of emotions, but she was too tired to look any further than the surface.

Spike was going to be okay, and that was all that mattered.


End file.
